The fog lay heavy over the Dead Sea, erasing the world beyond its shores.

A week ago, I had stood here and seen Palestine clearly, a dark band across the water. Now it was almost gone, dissolved into the mist. Ella slipped into the water, floating effortlessly, while I stayed behind, camera in hand, framing the decay along the shore: broken plastic chairs, heaps of litter, the wreckage of difficult times. Sameh, a friend we’d met at the hostel, stood nearby, a cigarette glowing between his fingers. He was from Hebron, and three days ago, his face had been alive with urgency. “Have you seen the news?” he’d said in the kitchen, his grin almost defiant. “Palestine is fighting.”

I shifted my lens to the salt-encrusted shallows, then to the sagging plastic roofs of the empty shelters. Sameh’s voice cut through the stillness. “They have a problem there,” he said, his tone flat, his gaze fixed on the opposite shore. I followed his finger to the faint outline of smoke breaking through the fog—a dark column rising steadily, missile fire unmistakable.

Ella floated on, serene, her world undisturbed. Sameh’s cigarette burned down to its filter. It was 10:20 a.m., October 10, 2023.